from Into the Swirl and Static, Traveler

Still… we’ll take its coat, glowing soup that’s to be served on our fine frigid message. I love you.

Torrents of fish livers make way to the moon

detoured to the sun and won’t argue otherwise.

Close the light now. The door is trying to escape,

the star I’ve boiled in the kitchen now whittles wood,

aims to call for back up. Used skyscrapers are good

as wrapping paper and birthday candles are full of leaves.

The clothes I wear today plot jailbreak in noon day breeze.

*************************************

I’ve seen in the dimple of oil stains, orange blossoms kissing their leaves in the gutter. The blossoms whisper help to

the dying palm on the corner of Sixth and Colton Ave. Shake loose the earth the gray

earth folded over our sewer systems

uncover the words in old possum

bones claimed by street sweepers! Cast nets back into the sun! I need a new star to focus this death on. Street lamp, crawl back into the womb and beg for forgiveness. The loose change is not enough. The fence posts and stray dogs leave their yards to the brittle sprinkler piping.

I will lie down and offer myself.

Bio

L.B. Aaron Reeder writes from Albuquerque, New Mexico and is an MFA – Poetry student at The University of New Mexico. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Black Tongue Review, Grey Sparrow, Four Quarters Magazine, Wayfarer, Wilderness House Literary Review, Pacific Review, Black Wire, and others. He is the active Secretary of the Inland Empire Literary Organization, PoetrIE.